Beyond The Call
by RONSON
Summary: When a routine execise in surveillance goes from bad to worse James Bond, Agent 007 is left with little choice but to pursue and halt two brothers who hold a historical grudge with the British Government and it's people. work in progress but please r
1. Finishing Up

Beyond The Call  
  
By Ronson Starring Ian Fleming's James Bond - Agent 007  
  
Chapter One  
  
The morning sun poured down on the rush-hour traffic along the Thames Embankment, the bright rays reflecting from the water onto the clean façade of the MI6 building. The beige three-tone interiors of the new M's office appeared brighter in places as the sunlight came through the small neatly placed windows. The former British Army logistics man had being talking to the well dressed, dark haired man for some time now, occasionally stopping to push his always-slipping glasses back up his slightly red nose.  
  
"And as you well know my predecessor ran a tight-ship here, something which I do, of course, wish to continue in the same fashion." His slightly bald and greying hair moved slightly as the air conditioning automatically adjusted itself in the rising summer temperatures' that had being gripping London.  
  
"Of course," responded the well-suited gentleman.  
  
"Well that aside," continued the new spy-master, "I've reviewed your file and everything seems to be in order, so thank-you for your time, 004."  
  
"Thank-you Sir." The agent got up from the plush grey leather chair, turned, then headed through the sliding panel double doors. He continued through Miss Moneypenny's office into the executive foyer.  
  
"So who does that leave Miss Moneypenny?" M's commanding tone spouted from the intercom on Moneypenny's desk, she flicked the return switch.  
  
"003 and 007, Sir," replied the ever efficient secretary.  
  
"Progress on either?" enquired M.  
  
"003 is still recuperating in New Delhi."  
  
"And 007?"  
  
"He'll be in this afternoon Sir, he's just finishing up in Paris."  
  
The Parisian Streets too were bathed in sunshine but the rush-hour had been and gone. Indeed it was the season of holiday in France and the tourist hotspots were brimming with life. Outside the Paris Hilton many concierges' and patrons could be seen handling luggage and paying due taxi fares. Suite 16 of the Hilton was both sumptuous and spacious, carefully decorated in sky-blue pastels with a crème/white trim. "It's nearly time," a pretty brunette, with her distinct French accent looked onto the street below through mini-binoculars.  
  
"Two or three minutes perhaps," a distinctly English reply came from the other side of the room. James Bond stood in front of the body-length mirror tucking his white shirt into his grey trousers, following up by putting on his navy blue tie and shoulder holster.  
  
"And when this is over we can spend some time together perhaps?" Asked the half-dressed French girl, her towelling robe slipping at the left shoulder.  
  
"There's no perhaps about it," said Bond as he walked around the double bed towards the girl at the window, "no perhaps at all Lucille." He kissed her shoulder and corrected the robe.  
  
"Should anything happen," Lucille looked up from the street and glanced towards an open laptop on the dressing table, "my password is pleasure."  
  
"Of course it is," quipped Bond, "but this is just routine darling, you've nothing to worry about." He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out his Walther P99 he slipped it into his shoulder holster. "Besides, we'll be dining in London by tonight." Bond enthused as Lucille looked back onto the street below.  
  
Then she saw them, Randolph and Edwin Tudor. "Time for action Commander!" exclaimed Lucille as she turned to Bond. He went over, gently kissed Lucille, grabbed his grey blazer from the back of her chair and headed for the door. "Don't forget your cue," Lucille picked up a three foot by two- inch square case that was propped against the radiator by the window.  
  
"Thanks," said Bond as took hold of the case, "I'd be lost without you Lucille," the French girl blushed slightly then returned to her surveillance. "See you soon," called Bond as the door closed behind him. As he left the suite Bond observed the corridors of the Hilton; they were almost empty but for the pretty looking maid in her neatly pressed all- whites, her blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail; an arguing couple waiting for the elevator. Bond took the stairs, collected a copy of Le Monde from the lobby and headed outside. He immediately spotted the Tudors' chauffeur driven Mercedes saloon darting out in front of a tram and into the main highway.  
  
Bond hailed a taxi, "Ou a monsieur?" asked the stubble-faced driver.  
  
"Follow the Merc," Bond pointed as he got into the taxi, "we're going to Le Seniors Billiards Club."  
  
As the taxi motored through the busy mid-morning traffic Bond observed the saloon which was some four or five cars ahead of them. He had, at times, an almost clear view of the Tudor brothers; Randolph, the elder of the two was in his late fifties. A well educated man he had specialised in chemistry but was let down by his penchant for backing the wrong horse. Edwin, some 15 years younger than his brother had a huge passion for architecture, parting with many of his family heirlooms to pay for exquisite properties, most of which were in Mediterranean Europe. They looked similar; both well tanned with the same greying of the temples, though Edwin appeared somewhat more nervous or apprehensive than his brother, Bond thought. As well as their chauffeur their head of security, Glenn Thorpe, joined the two brothers. With his shaven head and facial scars he looked like his past, a former bare-knuckle fighter from London's East-End who'd impressed Randolph on a fight-card arranged by the older of the Tudors'. Bond watched as the brothers' Mercedes once again darted in front of a tram, this time to park in front of Le Seniors. "Here will do," said Bond as he leant forward towards the driver brandishing a 20-Euro note, "keep the change." He got out some 100 yards from the billiards club entrance and stood watching as the Tudors' and Thorpe went in.  
  
The grandeur of Le Seniors matched that of the Hilton, Bond was impressed. "Nice, for a billiards club," Bond studied the reception area, cue case in one hand, his copy of Le Monde in the other. He tucked the newspaper into his right pocket and leant, left elbow first, on the reception counter. "The name's Bond, James Bond. I have a reservation." The young male receptionist tapped on his keyboard.  
  
"Ah, oui monsieur Bond. But you have no partner?" the young lad looked up.  
  
"No, I'm just here for some practice," replied Bond.  
  
"I see," the receptionist smirked slightly looking into one of the shadowy corners of the reception, "Madame Cheri will show you to your room." An hourglass shadow moved across the oak-clad walls of the reception until Madame Cheri came into view, her green eyed gaze fixing on Bond. Her outfit was a combination of a stereotypical French maid and Can-Can girl. This didn't fuss Bond as he followed her gyrating hips up three flights of stairs to the private game rooms.  
  
"A room with a view, as requested," said the hostess in her best attempt at natural sounding English. The huge oak door swung open revealing a full- size blue baize table at the centre of yet another oak-clad room.  
  
"Perfect," responded Bond.  
  
"And will that be all?" Madame Cheri's stern yet pretty features softened.  
  
"That's all," said Bond as he gently placed several Euro notes into her cleavage, "just make sure I'm not disturbed." He shot a smirk at the girl; "I take my practice most seriously."  
  
Once Bond was sure the hostess was gone he secured the door with one of the six red-leather lined chairs which were casually scattered around the room. He switched off the huge light fitting that hung above the billiards table. Then, without a second thought, the agent jumped up on the table and proceeded to unwire and remove the table light fitting, hood and all. He placed this onto the floor and jumped down. There was a pause for thought, then Bond pulled out the newspaper from his right pocket and lay the centrespread across the middle of the table. On top of this he placed one of the remaining red-leather chairs. Bond climbed back onto the table, then up onto the chair and started pushing one of the heavy, white, ceiling panels above him. The chair rocked slightly as he pushed on the ceiling panel, then he heard an awful tearing noise. He looked down uttering, "that's torn it," as he observed the not so immaculate table. "Oh well," Bond thought aloud and continued pushing through the panel. Once there was more than enough room for the agent to get into the hidden interior ceiling he once again jumped down from the table, this time collecting the black cue case he'd left on the chair blocking the door. Bond opened the case, unusually at one of the square ends, and pulled out something that appeared to look more like a fishing rod than a billiards cue. The rod like device was no longer than a foot in length, flat tipped at one end with a wire leading into the case at the other. Bond placed the rod on the table and tipped the case into his left hand. A coiled wire rolled out with a two- inch square box attached at the non-rod end. Bond put the box and coil into his right pocket and picked up the rod, placing its' flat tipped end also into his right pocket. He climbed back onto the table, then chair and this time into the interior roof.  
  
As the agent crawled he had to make sure he stayed on the panel support rafters, a penlight between his teeth was also becoming uncomfortable. He knew any excess weight would lead to the ceiling collapsing, which would ultimately jeopardise the operation. He kept crawling until he was next to the ceiling panel near the far wall in the private room next to his. Intelligence gathered by Lucille, who was incidentally employed by MI6 via the French authorities, had identified this room as the venue for a summit between the Tudor brothers and a Ukrainian industrialist, Yillvgenny Barakov. Bond took the penlight from his mouth and propped it against one of the upraised rafters. He then pulled the black box from his pocket and flipped its' lid. Inside there was a small ear-piece and a small, but thick, corkscrew like device. He put the ear-piece in and then placed the corkscrew in the centre of the targeted panel. Rather than a handle the corkscrew had a small red button on the top of the metalwork, Bond pressed it. There was a quiet whirring sound than a quick shot of air, a perfect hole had been left for the flat tipped rod which Bond promptly inserted, careful to make sure only the first inch or so went through the hole. Bond looked back at the box and pressed a small blue button that had been exposed after the ear-piece and corkscrew had been removed from it.  
  
"Well James," Bond cheered at the voice of Lucille in the earpiece, "it seems we've got the Tudor boys, their security man, Barakov and three backs turned. "The French girl was observing all from her laptop which had a direct digital link to the small black box, the rod like device being camera and microphone combined. "They're talking about an event, the old Tudor says 56 hours, Barakov seems to nod in agreement, says they'll travel to collect the equipment tonight but they won't arrive until the day." Lucille was breathing heavily, smoking Bond thought. She continued, "someone's phone is ringing."  
  
Bond could just about hear it, "Beethoven's Midi Symphony," he pondered.  
  
"It belongs to Barakov, he's passing it to Thorpe." Lucille watched Thorpe's dumb frown, "Thorpe listened then said 'you have authorisation.' Now he's dialled off." 


	2. Distressed Damsel

Chapter Two  
  
The corridors of the Hilton were near empty though many rooms heaved with summertime excess. The cleaner entered suite 14. As the door closed behind her the corridor was suddenly filled by three well built, shaven headed men. Their suits were similar in cut to that of their employer, Glenn Thorpe, ill-fitting black, brown and grey numbers. The tallest, in a peculiar brown tweed suit and navy blue T-shirt, knocked hard on the door of suite 16. "Room service," bellowed the quite obvious south London accent.  
  
Lucille looked up from the laptop; "I'll be back in one moment James." She stood, tightened her robe and proceeded to open the door. Bond heard a thud through the ear-piece; a back-handed slap from the brown suited heavy had sent Lucille to the floor. All three men were now in the suite rummaging through all and sundry.  
  
The tallest man pulled Lucille up by her short brown locks and dragged her to the laptop; "Mr. Barakov doesn't like being spied on." He turned to the shorter of his colleagues, "Work this thing, I don't think the girl's capable." He let go of Lucille's hair and her tear-stained face fell to the ground, unsure of how to respond to this ambush that was taking place. As the black suited shorter man checked over the laptop display Lucille leapt up and hit the escape key, the display vanished replaced by a password entry box.  
  
"That was very stupid," the short yet stocky man with a Yorkshire drawl was not impressed and pulled a Colt .45 from the back of his trousers, "very stupid indeed."  
  
The reception on Bond's ear-piece had subsided to nothing but he knew he had to remain where he was, the camera and microphone were still recording. But what was being said, thought Bond, then he heard Barakov's ringtone again. Suddenly a bullet ripped through the ceiling panel, then another and another. Bond scrambled around on the rafters, he knew the invaders at the Hilton must've seen enough on the laptop to give his location away. It was then that Bond's weight left the support rafters and transferred just too much onto a panel as he avoided another bullet. The panel couldn't support him and he tumbled into the private game room below, rolling onto his feet and producing his Walther in one swift movement. He instinctively aimed to his right as one of the three unidentified men left the room, slamming the door behind him. Next to the door the gunman who'd destroyed much of the false ceiling had little opportunity to aim as Bond put a bullet in the middle of the his forehead. It took Bond just a matter of seconds to notice the third unidentified man on his knees, Bond thought he must have knocked him as he came through the ceiling. He also noticed a pair of mounted shotguns but thought nothing of them, instead he turned to face Barakov, the Tudors and Thorpe who were all on the other side of the dust- covered billiards table. He aimed at Barakov's chest; the sweaty Ukrainian didn't even blink. "Who are you?" he spluttered.  
  
"British Intelligence," Bond pointed the Walther at Barakov's head, "and your game is well and truly up."  
  
"Well actually sir, I think it is your game that is up," a wry smile came across the Barakov's pasty face. Bond heard a clunk-click like sound and then felt the cold metal of one of the shotguns against his right temple.  
  
"Drop it!" grunted the armed thug, Bond followed the instruction throwing his gun onto the table and raising his arms at the elbows.  
  
"So," Barakov paused as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief he'd produced from his trouser pocket, "you're British secret service then, I am privileged." He seemed amused by this, thought Bond. "So near, yet so far, just like your French friend back at the Hilton." Bond's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Leave the girl out of this, she's just part of my cover." Bond was trying to think ahead.  
  
"Part of your blown cover." Barakov remained across the table whilst the Tudor brothers left the room. "We knew you were watching, we just didn't know who you were." Barakov looked at Bond with an almost snobbish sneer. "But now we know I have decided the girl could be of great use," he looked Bond dead in the eye, "the Tudors' will definitely have some use for her, I'm sure of it."  
  
"You've forgotten two things though," Bond's risk assessment from the previous week came to mind, which doors led where, how to escape; he had to get Lucille. "Firstly my station officer will be expecting to hear from me," Bond checked Barakov's emotionless eyes.  
  
"And the second?" The Ukrainian asked with a certain swagger.  
  
"Well," Bond's shoulders relaxed, "nobody loads a mounted gun."  
  
"They do in my club, and you sir are expendable," Barakov nodded to the gunman, this was something Bond's assessment hadn't considered.  
  
The English henchman pulled the hammer back on the shotgun; Bond jerked, his right hand pushing the shotgun towards the hanging light above the billiards table. A loud bang was followed by a mighty crash and more ceiling dust. Bond raised his right leg backwards into the thugs groin, then as the man fell Bond put his right elbow into the mans' face pushing him to the wall behind. Bond darted towards the door, picking up his earlier victims' gun on the way.  
  
As Bond stepped into the wide crème-carpeted corridor an ivory handled knife flew from the adjacent doorway into the oak panel next to Bond's right arm. It had pinned his sleeve to the wall, which in turn had forced the gun out of his hand. He grabbed at the ivory with his left hand and returned the knife to a snarling Madame Cheri as she went for a small pistol holstered to her left thigh. She fell, clutching the now red blade in her stomach, near the kidneys Bond thought. Bond strode over the hostess into the clubs third floor kitchen. A startled chef stood next to a large stainless steel oven. As the agent proceeded through the room one of Thorpe's security team entered the opposite doorway, the doorway Bond wanted. Bond went to his right, pushing the chef between himself and the leather baton-wielding assailant.  
  
"Time for the spy to die," the thug sneered as he pushed the chef out of his path, the chef obliged by promptly exiting the room. The man then lurched forward at Bond who backed up against a sink. The thug made a grab for a pan on the oven and swung it in Bond's direction, Bond ducked and quickly rose to plant a right hook on the man's chin. The assailant responded by grabbing Bond with his left hand and swinging him across the room, from the sink towards a wall of steel door freezers. Bond's left shoulder took the brunt of the impact, though the pain radiated throughout. The thug then charged the agent.  
  
"You need to chill out," quipped Bond as he smoothly opened a freezer door into the man's face. Bond put the unconscious man in the freezer and clicked the door shut.  
  
Bond had to react quickly as the pan came towards him again, he raised his hands but to no avail as he tumbled to the kitchen floor. Another security worker thought Bond as he looked up, he wasn't wrong, it was the man with the shotgun from Barakov's room. The man threw all of his weight behind the pan as he went at Bond. Bond rolled across the floor making a grab for the previous man's dropped baton. Again the thug tried with the pan, once again hitting the cold hard floor as Bond rolled out of the way. This time though the agent made a move of his own as he sent a hard blow with the baton to the top of the man's right arm. The pan crashed to the floor, Bond jumped to his feet and felled the thug with another hard blow, this time to the back of the head.  
  
"Why don't you share some bodily warmth," uttered Bond as he put the second man into the freezer.  
  
He exited the kitchen as originally intended, leading through to another oak-clad, crème-carpeted corridor of private game rooms. The English agent knew he was on the front side of the third floor and headed towards the stairway to his left. But then he stopped and turned for a game room door as two burly shaven headed men bundled up the stairs onto the corridor. Fortunately for Bond the room was unoccupied apart from the identical furniture which had adorned both his and Barakov's room. The difference in this room was the balcony door at the far end of the room; Bond ran to it and opened it stepping out onto the small gantry. He closed the door behind him and observed the first floor balcony café which expanded some 50 foot to it's own edge, he noted the tramline which ran next to this edge. Bond put his left leg over the low railings followed by his right, then he knelt down looking for the starting point of the flowery bunting which hung underneath. He found it as the inside rooms' main door crashed open; he looked back to see Thorpe brandishing a shotgun. This was enough for Bond to take a chance; he swung underneath the balcony gripping the bunting. He fell in a staccato fashion as the bunting became unhooked every two-foot.  
  
The shotgun fire missed Bond but not the waiters' teapot as the agent ran past. Thorpe reloaded and took aim as Bond scrambled over the first floor balcony ledge. Another shot hit the railings as Bond removed his hand and jumped onto a moving tram below. There was another shot, hitting the tram roof. Bond looked back and noticed Barakov pulling Thorpe away from the balcony edge. He fiddled with two wires above the moving trams doors. They opened, shutting almost instantly, leaving the agent just enough time to swing inside. A startled ticket attendant looked at Bond, slightly unsure of what she should say, her eyes wide in almost shock. Bond glanced at the tram map noticing it ended near to the Hilton. "All the way please," Bond offered the loose change from his trouser pocket. 


End file.
